


it's getting harder to breathe

by outofcases (hockeycaptains)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, The X Factor Era, and beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/outofcases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before a star collapses, it swells.  </p><p>In hindsight, Louis thinks, it’s really no wonder that they broke each other’s hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's getting harder to breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineffablelouis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablelouis/gifts).



> Haven't written h/l in ages, so forgive me if I'm a little rusty.

It started like this: the overwhelming.

It started like this: the heart the heart the heart.

It started like this: two boys/big lights/matching aches/loud songs/falling.

They were teetering at the top of the entire universe, looking down on cities with hands linked and dreaming, and wishing, and wanting. They were perched on the precipice of an entirely unfamiliar adventure and both of them sought out the adrenaline like storm chasers.

It was never close enough. It was sleeping in the same tiny bed just to feel each other’s heat, to let the lull of breaths sing them to sleep.

Before a star collapses, it swells. 

In hindsight, Louis thinks, it’s really no wonder that they broke each other’s hearts.

...

Louis is 18 and Harry is 16.

He comes up with a thousand and one nicknames for Harry, tries them all out and only keeps the ones that stick. 

So Harry is Curly, and Harold, and Love, and Babe. 

So Harry is Darling. 

So Harry is Sunshine.

They flirt shamelessly because everything is _new_ and _shiny_ and _beautiful_ and they’re _winning_. Louis is mostly swaying in the back and singing in unison during the choruses, but he’s never been so thrilled in his life.

The nerves just ramp it all up more - Louis talks Harry down from a panic attack after a performance and they’re impossible to separate for hours after. Harry squeezes Louis’ hand before they go on every week, without fail. This experience is a whirlwind, and when it gets particularly overwhelming Louis anchors himself to Harry and _clings_.

They’re in the house, and they just got back from rehearsals, and everything is still sitting at the tipping point.

"I don’t know," says Louis, and then pauses; Harry just nods up at him with sweet, encouraging eyes, "how any of this is real," he finishes lamely, and there’s so many other things he wants to say but this feels the closest to the truth.

Harry gnaws a little at his lower lip, rolling Louis’ words around in his head, very obviously taking care to think about them, and Louis loves him so much he thinks he might burst with it, and he knows it shows in his eyes, his hands, his words, and he doesn’t know to reign it back in.

He’s sitting on his tiny bed and Harry is sprawled out on his stomach on the floor, face resting on his folded hands. ”If we’re dreaming, don’t wake me up.”

And Louis wants to make fun of him for it, feels the words on the tip of his tongue. And then Harry turns his searchlight gaze onto him, those green, green eyes, and he can’t do it.

Instead, he hops gracelessly to the floor and cups Harry’s face, brings him up to his knees, and kisses him soundly. ”Never change,” murmurs Louis, practically into Harry’s lips, too busy feeling fervent to be embarrassed at the way this boy drags the honesty right out of him, “Promise me, superstar.”

Harry smiles, almost bashful. ”I promise,” he whispers, lips turning up into a smile that makes Louis’ stomach flip, and neither of them understands that it’s a lie.

And this boy. This precious, clever boy that can keep up with Louis blow for blow, that will dance with him, that lets Louis kiss him all over, that laughs at his jokes, that wears his heart on his sleeve.

This boy is going to be the death of him, and he knows it, and he tumbles into love despite it all.

...

Louis is 19 and Harry is 17.

They live together.

Every morning is tea and toast, sometimes pancakes if Harry is in the mood to cook, and sleepy smiles, and Louis is head over heels.

Interviewers eat it up, ask Harry if he minds cleaning Louis’ mess, and Harry always shakes his head and smiles a beautiful smile, and Louis always fights the urge to duck his head because he’s so fond.

They get home and they take turns showering or do it together. Either way, Louis always ends up smelling like Harry’s shampoo because Harry buys the nice kind and Louis buys the drugstore brand in whatever is cheapest, all too used to being counted on to spot a deal when going to the grocery, or help crunch numbers at the end of the month.

Here, now, he doesn’t have to do that anymore, can send money home and have some left over for fun even if it goes against every one of his instincts. Old habits die hard, but Louis always was up for a challenge.

Their single hits number one in the UK and he crushes Harry into a tight so hug that they both have trouble breathing, but it’s the only thing he can do. It’s all there is.

Harry is gasping, “I can’t believe it, oh my god, I can’t believe it.”

And Louis is laughing, spinning them around until they land in a tangle of limbs on the ground, still grinning and giggling and giddy. ”Believe it, sunshine!” he proclaims, and in this version of the story he doesn’t think about himself for a second. All he can picture is the first time he met Harry in the loo, when Harry’s hands were shaking so badly he could hardly speak, and look at him now. Louis wants to give him everything good this world has to offer and this, he thinks, is a hell of a start.

...

Louis is 20 and Harry is 17.

The first meeting is a blindside. They get pulled in to a conference room their management rented in a nearby hotel, just the two of them, and Harry looks pale and Louis is nervous, too, heart pounding in his chest.

They’re holding hands under the table. It only takes an hour.

And Louis wishes he could let the words slip off of his back and drift into a blur after they’re finished, but everything is sharp clarity and he thinks about what was said for hours after.

"You okay, Lou?" Harry asks absentmindedly, grabbing a teabag from the top shelf. The only sign that anything is off at all is the way he doesn’t look at Louis, the way he hasn’t looked at Louis once since they got back to the flat.

Louis feels a hysterical laugh bubble up and shoves it back down. ”Peachy keen,” he answers.

Harry looks at his hands while he waits for the kettle to whine. 

...

Louis is 20 and Harry is 18.

Louis gets a girlfriend.

It would make things easier, they said, take the pressure off, allow things to settle. Louis does not say he’d date Harry in interviews anymore, keeps his hands off when there are paparazzi, sticks to little one-liners that are more inside jokes just to see Harry smile, and then he abandons those, as well.

Maybe it would be easier if he didn’t have a choice. If the management executives had presented him a take it or leave it deal, a threat, a command. But he gives up his twitter account easily, agrees to meet with Eleanor, tries his best to breathe through the claustrophobia of fame.

Maybe it would’ve been better if they’d backed him straight into a corner and strong-armed him into accepting a deal.

But in the end, he made a decision, and it felt like the end of the world at the time but he thought it’d get better. He and Harry, they’d talked about it, about what it means to be exclusive when neither feels ready to come out (and they’re _kids_ , Louis is thinking, they’re bright eyed kids and none of this is fair). 

So Louis takes Eleanor shopping and pays for her coffee and comes home to Harry.

So it goes like this: two boys in the same bed and miles and miles of distance.

And it goes like this: Harry as the womanizer Harry in the papers with beautiful models Harry growing up up up.

And it goes like this: returning to a quiet flat/cheap alcohol even though they can afford the good stuff/less holding hands/more kissing vicious to prove a point/crying when no one is looking/not falling out of love/never falling out of love.

...

Louis is 21 and Harry is 19.

Harry introduces Louis to his posh London friends and they’re fun and nice and Louis doesn’t like them much at all.

He doesn’t stop to think about why, doesn’t want to. Harry comes back slightly drunk and giggly almost every night, and he looks younger, and it twists up Louis’ heart to know that he is hurting this boy who gave him everything but he doesn’t know how to stop.

And Louis says “Stay in tonight?” and Harry says “Already made plans, but maybe tomorrow we can have a night in, ” and Louis nods because it never happens and he doesn’t know whose fault it is anymore.

Louis doesn’t say, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Louis doesn’t say, “Why do you only laugh at my jokes when we’re on camera.”

Louis doesn’t say, “Please. Don’t go. I’m so scared you’ll leave one night and not come back.”

...

Louis is 21 and Harry is 19.

Harry moves out and leaves holes everywhere.

Louis sells the flat, throws himself into charity work, visits his family as much as he can. He learns to do his own laundry properly. He watches cooking shows and tries to make his own dinner, usually ends up getting takeout instead.

He and Harry never really talked about it, but what they had is gone and if they don’t see each other over breaks, they chalk it up to being busy. They chalk it up to seeing each other all the time when they’re working.

The band gets back together to do some promo for the new album and Louis sees Harry and his mouth goes dry, and they don’t talk much but when they do it’s small talk, lots of company, the kind of careful they’ve never been, even in the beginning. Maybe especially in the beginning.

Zayn asks Louis, “are the two of you even friends?” with dark, concerned eyes, and Louis bristles.

The next day, before the photoshoot, he hangs all over Harry, kisses his cheek and makes him laugh and sticks right by his side, consequences be damned.

Harry lights up under the attention, and for a sparkling moment it’s all the same as it used to be.

An interviewer asks if his real name really is Harold, and before Harry can jump in, Louis says, “yes, yes it is,” and feels eyes on his back trying to bore right through him.

Louis doesn’t let up for the rest of the day, letting nerves and adrenaline sing him into action, and his antics might be bordering on manic but Harry is still here and he is still smiling and he is looking at Louis like he means something, again.

"Come back to mine after, just to like, hang out?" asks Louis as they’re nearing the end of the day. His heartbeat is kicking double time. He feels like a teenager again, stumbling over his words.

Harry grins and his dimples are a heartache entirely of their own. ”Yeah,” he answers, and then Louis is grinning back, “I’d like that.”

Louis shoots Zayn a look, like _of course we’re friends, idiot, do you see now?_

Zayn’s brow is slightly furrowed, like he’s worried, like he didn’t intend for this to happen. 

Louis swallows the anxiety and burns it up from the inside out. 

He’s fine. They’re fine. It’s all fine.

...

Louis is 22 and Harry is 19.

Practically the minute tour ends, Harry fucks off to LA, and Louis pretends not to be hurt that he was the last to find out.

Break is late night phone calls with old friends.

Break is charity event charity event charity event.

Break is getting together with Liam and writing new songs, trying to hide the ache by drowning it in guitar and catchy melodies. People will be singing about pain at the tops of their lungs or not at all, if he can help it. It’s probably better that way.

Break is an outing with Eleanor and then leaving her to pull in a dirty club, paying an exorbitant amount to keep it all private, telling the boy he goes home with that he’s going to be thinking about someone else, if that’s okay.

And he doesn’t call Harry. And he doesn’t call Harry.

The time passes rather quickly, all things considered.

Harry comes back tan and beautiful, loose shirts and a wide, easy smile, like he’s settled right into himself. Louis hugs him more out of habit than anything else, perfunctory, and his skin is warm, like he’d just stepped out of the sun. ”You look good,” says Louis, perfectly willing to make it into a joke if he has to.

Harry just shoots him a half-awkward smile. ”Thanks,” he answers, and then he turns to talk to someone else.

Louis feels cold the moment Harry’s eyes leave him.

That, if nothing else, has stayed the same.

...

Louis is 22 and Harry is 20.

They don’t know how to talk to each other anymore, so they don’t.

It’s that easy, and that hard.

During concerts, Louis watches Harry on the big screen, sees all the ways he’s grown into himself, and it pinches at his heart but only in a dull way. It happened so slowly that it’s the only way he lets himself feel it, anyway - the sharpness takes a lot out of him. He can only cry himself to sleep in a hotel room so many times before it starts to get old.

When it gets suffocating and the pain is creeping into his heart, he finds Zayn, because Zayn understands that Louis needs quiet, sometimes. 

Liam would only try to fix it all, which is great except there’s nothing left to fix.

Niall would try to cheer him up, but Louis tries to cheer himself up all the time and it never works because the ache in his chest is an old, old ache. 

Harry is the reason. Sometimes Louis thinks he’d give anything for Harry to look at him the way he used to, for a real hug, for just one more kiss. But he can’t do that.

So he goes to Zayn, and Zayn cuddles him a bit and murmurs into his hair and lets him cry and doesn’t ask any questions, and Louis is so, so grateful.

When they go out as a group, Louis sticks to the opposite side of Harry, or creates space between them when they’re shoved together. He still goes to see Eleanor even though there’s no real reason for them to be seen together anymore. He could end it, or she could, and no one would bat an eye.

Thing is, Louis loves her. Maybe not in the way he’s supposed to, but this was never a matter of the heart anyway, and he’s grown rather fond of her. 

They get coffee and management calls a few paps. 

"You look like shit," she greets him, and he smiles despite himself.

"Good to see you, too," he retorts, and she takes his hand but there’s a little crinkle of worry between her brows.

He sighs, leans back in his chair, and she takes off her sunglasses. ”Things are the same, then?” she asks, but it doesn’t really sound like a question.

The sad tilt of his shoulders answers for him.

Eleanor makes a sound that’s halfway between exasperation and sympathy. ”You can’t keep doing this to yourself. I hate to see you like this.”

Louis wants to laugh and he wants to cry. ”Yeah, but it’s not a choice, is it? I don’t know how to love anyone else.”

"Oh, Louis."

But he doesn’t want her sympathy, not right now. ”Nearly four years and this is what I have to show for it. Can barely even look him in the eye.”

"Walk with me," says Eleanor, "come on, let’s go," and she takes his hand and leads him out of the shop and onto the streets.

They find a quiet park and a shaded bench and they sit down.

"Tell me about your life," says Louis, eyes pleading, and she reaches up to brush his fringe out of his eyes. 

He wants to be distracted, is all. They’ve talked about all this before, and nothing she can say will fix what he’s broken. He just needs her to talk about something that has nothing to do with his situation.

And she does.

...

Louis is 22 and Harry is 20.

There’s a mixup at the hotel, and according to Paul the easiest way to fix it is for Louis and Harry to room together, since the other boys have already settled in.

They agree, since they aren’t divas and it’s not like they hate each other - that’s exactly the problem, thinks Louis, bitter. It would be so much simpler if he could hate Harry, but that’s not the way it worked out.

So he’s stuck here in this small hotel room turning around politely while Harry changes, and it’s so hard to stop the remembering.

And it goes like this: Louis trying to start a conversation and Harry barely looking up, shrugging, so obviously disinterested it hurts.

And it goes like this: Louis wanting to get into Harry’s space and shake him until he admits that it’s hurting him too, because he doesn’t get to leave Louis alone in this like he’s left him so many times before.

And it goes like this: the flex of muscle in Harry’s back, his arms, his stomach - the way he’s firmed up over the years, and how well he wears it.

And it goes like this: Louis knows Harry’s body, but not like this.

Harry sings in the shower the next morning and Louis brushes his teeth to get the taste of sleep out of his mouth. They don’t talk to each other, just pottering around the room and gathering the few things they’d unpacked. They’ll be here one more night, but Louis suddenly feels self-conscious about his mess, and Harry’s always been the type to pick up after himself.

Such a polite boy. Louis used to tell him that, too, loved to see the way Harry’s shy grin would spread over his face. 

Today, Louis says nothing, and balls another t-shirt into his bag.

...

Louis is 23 and Harry is 20.

His first response when Harry calls him probably shouldn’t be anger, but it doesn’t stop him shouting.

"Happy New Year’s, Lou!" yells Harry, muffled party sounds in the background, and Louis genuinely wants to punch him in the face.

Because he can’t do that, he groans and rolls over in bed. ”Bloody hell, Harry, it’s 7 in the morning.” It comes out sharper than he’d intended, but he doesn’t take it back.

Harry gasps. ”Shit,” he says, “sorry, forgot about the time difference, thought it’d be midnight for you, too.”

"Harry," says Louis, slowly, carefully, "in what universe would I be spending New Year’s in Los Angeles?"

"The one where you’re with me," answers Harry without missing a beat, and then he backtracks, "fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, I’ve had too much to drink tonight." His words blur together and Louis clenches his eyes shut tightly.

It’s too early for a conversation like this. ”You didn’t mean it?”

A pause. ”Didn’t think you’d want to hear it,” corrects Harry, which answers very little and makes Louis’ head hurt more.

"That’s not fair," says Louis, and it comes out small. Harry makes him feel helpless, sometimes. "You don’t get to do that to me, H." The nickname slips out without Louis’ permission, and he presses his nails into his palms, digs them and tries to ground himself with the hot little points of pain. "You don’t get to make me the bad guy in all this."

"All this?" asks Harry, laughing disbelievingly, "All _what_ , Louis? There’s nothing left to ruin anymore.”

"What, so you’re just giving up?" Louis is horrified to find himself on the brink of tears, but he clings to his anger because it’s better than the alternative.

The sun is creeping through the curtains as Harry says, “I didn’t call you to fight.”

"Why did you call me, then? To wish me a happy new year because you’re wasted and don’t have the guts to talk to me otherwise? To rub it in that you’re in LA and I’m stuck in London alone in a flat that’s too big? Please, explain it to me, because I don’t understand."

He’s met with silence, and he tangles a hand through his messy hair to stop the shaking.

Harry says, “I miss you,” and he sounds all of 16.

"Tell me when you’re sober," bites out Louis, and he hangs up the phone.

Harry doesn’t call him back later that day, or the next day, or the next.

And that’s it, really. That’s it.

...

Louis is 23 and Harry is 21.

They’re alone in the same room for the first time in months.

Louis wonders, sometimes, how Harry manages to always keep it together so well, because Louis has days where he feels like he’s on the brink of collapse. Harry is clever moves and big smiles and crowd pleasing no matter where they go. Louis is tired jokes and acting out and pulling faces when he doesn’t feel like taking a proper photo. It’s wearing him thin. It’s been wearing him thin a long time.

They haven’t said much since New Year’s. Didn’t feel like there was much to say.

But here they are, waiting to go into their first solo interview together in years, and Louis is sick of hurting.

Harry is splayed out on the couch, eyes closed, head tipped back, and he is so, so beautiful. Louis wants to kiss his hairline and Louis wants to rough him up until the only thing he can remember is Louis’ name.

Louis walks until he’s standing over the couch. ”Harry,” he says, voice low.

Harry blinks his eyes open, mouth slack. ”Hi,” he answers, shuffling around until he’s sitting up.

"I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth, okay?"

His heartbeat is thundering in his chest, and Harry must read the edge of fear in his eyes, because he’s nodding. ”Yeah,” says Harry, “‘m listening.”

"Do you still love me?" he asks, and Harry freezes.

Louis doesn’t fiddle with his hands the way he wants to, instead standing as tall as he can and waiting for the answer. 

A frazzled intern runs in to inform them that the interviewer is ready to start when they are. They both jump a little, and Harry says, “one minute, please,” and shoots her a charming grin that only wavers at the edges.

She apologizes for bothering them and runs back out.

Louis and Harry lock eyes, and Louis tries not to buckle at the knees. Harry looks just as terrified as Louis feels. 

And then: Harry takes a deep breath and straightens his spine.

And then: he pushes his shoulders back and Louis can see the tense cords of muscle under his shirt, wants to know what it feels like to kiss him when it’s been so long.

And then: “Yeah,” says Harry, and it comes out a little bit broken, “Yeah, I do.”

...

Louis is 23 and Harry is 21.

It starts like this: the overwhelming.

It starts like this: the heart the heart the heart.

It starts like this: two boys/big lights/matching aches/loud songs/falling.

Louis breaks up with Eleanor but they still meet up for coffee whenever they can, and she fixes his fringe and tells him she’s so, so proud.

The other boys don’t say much. Niall kisses Louis on the cheek. Liam smiles and claps Louis on the shoulder. Zayn says, “happy for you,” in that sweet, quiet way of his, and Louis holds his hand out for a fist bump and then drags him into a tight hug.

And it’s not that it’s easy. 

He and Harry still have plenty of relearning to do, and when they fight it gets ugly fast, years of pent up frustrations leaking into petty arguments. Harry is still photographed with leggy supermodels, and he still fucks off to LA when he thinks it’s the simplest option. Louis still gets twitchy around cameras when they’re out together.

But then Louis will turn to Harry and make a bad joke and Harry will throw his head back and _laugh_ , and Louis will want to live in the moment forever.

Sometimes he thinks he’s so in love he can’t breathe, heart swelling up in his chest until he thinks he’ll burst with it, every day a new story, a new reason.

And then one day they’re sitting on the balcony of their hotel and looking out onto the ocean, hands tangled together, and Louis rests his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Here, with his favorite boy, Louis feels limitless.

"I love you," he says, tilting his head back to look at Harry.

Harry smiles, dimples popping out, eyes pale green like sea glass, and kisses Louis on the lips, lingering before pulling away.

"I love you, too," he answers, no hesitation, all warmth.

And then it’s the easiest thing in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @outofcases


End file.
